April, here

I search for you
in every flower
of this endless garden—
and you’re not there.

I wonder
if you still hate me,
and whether I will ever
stop loving you.

I miss the moments
that never came to be,
our almost-world,
that fragile “what if” in the air.

Then I remember—
no, I force myself to—
it was all a dream,
never something real.

I know.
I know it’s time.
This ache
shouldn’t have lasted so long.

But it did.

Your silence buried me,
slowly,
like something meant to disappear—
and still
my stubborn heart
keeps whispering your name.

I hate that it does.

I wish
you had tried,
just once.
Just enough
to prove I wasn’t the only one
standing there.

I miss you here,
in my quiet refuge.
I miss you now,
and in whatever comes after.

But most of all—

I miss
what never was.